Archive | blah blah blah RSS feed for this section

I Had No Idea A Toothbrush Like This Existed. It’s Like One Step Away From Cleaning My House Except The Asshole Who Designed It Forgot To Program That Option.

My husband brought home an electronic toothbrush which I imagine however much he paid, it would be able to feed an entire village of people.

I’ve never seen anything like it in my life. The hubby has been having issues with his teeth…. something about pockets and how the dentist just can’t deep clean his teeth in the proper way.

My husband’s teeth are being very difficult, so his teeth get this toothbrush that blows my mind.

I recently got a new car after having my old one for many years so I wasn’t used to all this high tech techi-ness that are in newer cars.

When we went to look for cars, the salesman would go on and on about the cool features and I was just standing there wondering if the turn signal and brake pedal is in the same spot. That’s all I give a shit about. This car has a back up camera, uh, and, uh, a lot of other shit that I don’t even understand.

When did I get so old?!

I do love the camera. That’s what really made me love this SUV but, I’m also impressed with the car radio volume control button that’s on the steering wheel.

Obviously, it doesn’t take much to make me happy.

I feel like a fucking rock star when I’m blasting the radio and can just press the mute button because Eddie Vedder is pissed about something and I can’t concentrate when he’s so angry and when I’m making a left hand hand turn on an unprotected light.

“Clearly I remember picking on the boy, seemed a harmless, little fuck. But, we unleashed a lion”…. MUTE.

UNMUTE… “King Jeremy the wicked, ruled the world. Jeremy spoke in class today.”

I love my car!

But, meanwhile… my husband’s toothbrush actually has an app and a phone holder that he stuck on the mirror.

Seriously, when did brushing teeth get so complicated?

There my husband is, brushing his teeth night after night playing with his app and synching his phone with his super fancy toothbrush.

If they can make a toothbrush this fantastical, it should be able to clean my house, damn it!

Comments { 1 }

I Don’t Have The HGTV Gene

Just like I am about pumpkin spice which makes me feel like a hooker without clients, HGTV also leaves me feeling empty.

I’ve accepted that I don’t have the HGTV gene, unlike many others. I do love to watch House Hunters International sometimes so I can see a mime and a circus juggler moving to Paris on a 1.5 million dollar budget. Where the hell do they get that kind of money?!

My husband foams at the mouth for shows like Fixer Upper and The Property Brothers. I, instead, get put to sleep. HGTV people seem to be everywhere, spreading their love of the color grey and finding the hidden potential of a crack house.

My “safe” channel used to be the Food Network. The “safe” channel is what I quickly put on when my 8 year-old enters the room. Currently, though, that channel is off limits for me because of the torture of seeing all the food I’m not allowed to eat right now. So, I’ve made HGTV the “safe” channel. Except, I had it on the other day, expecting the hummingbird to walk in anytime and I actually started nodding off as I was petting my dog.

I also see these HGTV people all over magazines and I think “Well, fuck. Zzzzzzz”. I want real celeb gossip. Like what Kate Winslet is up to or seeing Mark Ruffalo or Clive Owen as the Sexiest Man Alive. Somebody make that happen!

It must be the super mellow, monotone voices everybody uses on all the shows that HGTV airs. Actually it reminds me of the way my father-in-law speaks which nearly drives me into a coma.

They need a few shows with hosts like Sam Kinison to wake people up.

Sam: “I was driving the other day and a car pulled out in front of me and AAAAAHHH! AAAHHHH!”

If you don’t know who Sam Kinison is (I should say was since he passed away years ago), that probably doesn’t make much sense.

But picture this on HGTV:

Realtor: “We have an apartment in the middle of Paris with hardwood floors, it’s on the second floor, and it’s $100 dollars under budget”.

Prospective buyer: “I don’t know. That’s two flights of stairs. Ugh! And, that wall in the second bedroom is green. GREEN! Can you believe it? How can I make this a home with a second bedroom that’s painted green. I mean, yuck. I don’t want to pay $100 dollars under my budget for a place with a green wall. I’m going to take the place that’s twenty minutes outside of the city I want to live in and that’s $300 dollars over budget.”

Realtor: “Yeah, um, you know you can simply paint the green walls to a color that you would prefer”.

Prospective buyer: “Ewww, I don’t know. That’s a lot of work for a place that’s under budget and in the city of Paris”.

Realtor: “Okay, so, I’m not being paid enough to deal with dumbasses like you.

AAAHH! AAAHHH!”

*Back To Berlin

Comments { 5 }

Heart Beep

When my daughter was younger, she would say heart beep instead of heart beat. She said it quite a bit after she received a doctor’s kit for Christmas one year. Every time she said heart beep, I thought it was beyond cute. Those are the times when I actually miss the toddler years.

I’ve been in medical hell for almost 2 years now. My body decided to freak me out even further by getting pneumonia, ending up in the ER two days later because I couldn’t catch my breath, landing in the ICU for a few days, and spending another 3 days in the hospital.

Instead of what we thought was an asthma attack ended up being fluid in my lungs, which also affected my heart. I was born with a congenital heart defect so I’ve always had to have yearly check-ups with a cardiologist. I had open heart surgery when I was five and since then, I’ve been good to go.

Until now.

Basically, the doctors I’ve been seeing say a lot about what could be causing the issue but I’m gonna go with my instinct and say I don’t think they know what’s going on for sure. I’m being referred to two physicians in the “city”. Since I’ve been out of the hospital, I have been terrified to do almost anything because I worry that I’m going to overdue it and then drop dead.

I feel so old right now.

So, that surgery I was going to be having at the end of the month to remove salivary stones has been put on pause.

This whole thing sucks. I worry I’m going to be dead in a year thanks to my ever-present anxiety and depression. And that, my friends, is what I’ve been doing for the month of November.

I will now shut it with all these medical problems or I’m going to have to change my blog to This Is Senior Citizenhood.

Dear, 2018.

You’ve gotta up your game and do A LOT better!

*No Roots

Comments { 2 }

Basketcase

Dear laundry,

I’ve been trying to bite my tongue about this but I’ll just come out with it. Why do you gotta be such a dick? You fill up within hours of me finally getting the laundry done for the week. It would be nice to let me bask in the “I’ve got all the laundry done, hallefuckingluluah!”, glow. But, nope. I’ll slide open the dresser drawer, put the clothes in, and a minute later, you’re laughing in my face with the basket halfway full within minutes.

During the winter, it’s especially hellish because my husband has thick, flannel lined everything where only one of his outfits takes up the entire clothes basket. We live in New England after all, and for half the year, our clothes are super bulky.

Oh, joy!

It seems the colder it gets, the longer it takes me to get around to folding the laundry. Actually, I take that back. It always takes me a long time to fold the laundry.

I’ve tried keeping up with the laundry by doing a load every day but that just makes me want to burn all our clothes and join a nudist colony.

So, I do the laundry in one big haul over the weekend.

Friday rolls around. Oh, what the hell. Let’s get a load of laundry started because I want to get a leg up and it’s usually around 8 pm and after a few glasses of wine. Anything sounds fun after a few glasses of wine. Even laundry.

By 9 pm, I’m about ready to drop dead from the insomnia I’ve dealt with all week and leave the laundry in the washer overnight.

My husband, my very sweet husband, I might add, lets me sleep in late on the weekends since he knows I deal with insomnia. I get up ready to tackle the several more loads of laundry for the weekend.

Kidding.

It’s all I have to properly function like a semi-productive human in the morning. I don’t seem to fully wake up until 2 pm on the weekends because I’ve been doing tedious, mind-numbing shit all week. Just making sure my kid gets to school in the morning feels like I’ve run a marathon.

So, laundry.

I look forward to thee as much as I do constipation.

Never!

And there you sit, overnight, in the washer because the wine made me feel like I’m queen of the world so I will tackle these several loads of laundry.

Oh, but what’s that? My husband is going to throw in a “quick” load of his work clothes after putting the other load of laundry into the dryer. Meaning, he’s going to throw them in the damn washer, start the damn washer, and take off doing everything except the damn laundry he just put in the damn washer. I know I shouldn’t complain and that’s more than some husband’s do but seriously. Seriously?!

I want to say thanks for making me do an extra load I didn’t know existed and that you will now forget it until Sunday night.

This laundry isn’t going away no matter how much I try to conjure up my fairy godmother and the woodland creatures that help around the house in fairy tales. This shit isn’t doing itself.

Finally, with two cups of coffee, I get the momentum to conquer this tower of dirty clothes. And then… then, I’m like fuck this shit by the last load of laundry that’s finally finished on Sunday evening. The “quick” laundry load my husband started on Saturday morning has long been folded and hung up.

I just can never seem to fold that last load of laundry. I have good intentions to fold it and put it away but that dies off day by day.

It starts like this:

Oooh, I’m a nice, fresh load of laundry straight out of the dryer. I want to be folded.

And I’m like “Eh, I’d rather watch “The Handmaid’s Tale” again or “13 Reasons Why”, I’ll do it tomorrow.

Monday morning comes around. After being awake for a few hours, I turn on the dryer for a couple of minutes to de-wrinkle the clothes. Then, I fold them and put them away.

Kidding.

I forget about it. Until, later that night when all I have left for my underthings is my period underwear. That’s when I know I can’t procrastinate much longer. When I hit that part of my panty drawer, I know it’s time to get serious about laundry.

So, I turn on the dryer again and put it in the basket. I’m so close to folding that last damn basket of damn laundry but what happens? There’s usually some excuse for my 8 year-old to get out of bed 50 times a night.

I push the laundry basket to the side of the closet and tend to the hummingbird. Finally, I just want to crawl into bed and fall into a coma.

Tuesday. The basket is still sitting there.

Wednesday. I’m in quite a pickle because I’m on my last pair of period underwear.

Thursday. Time to fold. But, the clothes are so wrinkled and have been sitting there so I’ll deal with it later. I start a new load of laundry. I even actually dry it, fold it, and put it away. And yet, there in the corner of the closet is the basket of whites that is begging for attention, wanting to be folded and put away.

Next thing I know, it’s the weekend and more damn laundry. That poor basket of clean clothes that has been sitting in the closet are there until Monday.  I want to just throw them in the dryer but there’s usually someone in this house, my husband, who mixes the dirty clothes with the clean clothes basket.

I know there’s an easy solution, just fold the damn laundry in the first place, but that’s no fun. So, I wash it again and this time, I grab a few things out of the dryer and put them away because it’s past bedtime and I will end up lying awake in bed for a few hours before I get up and watch Teen Mom 2 on the DVR instead of folding laundry.

I’ll fold the laundry in the basket tomorrow. Or maybe by next Saturday.

Definitely by next Monday.

Comments { 2 }

I Thought I Was So Cool With My Cassette Player And Smurf Tape

When I was about 8 years-old, I was given a cassette player. It was during the height of smurf popularity in the 80’s and I was given a smurf tape that I played over and over and over again. Singing the smurf songs at the top of my lungs made me feel like a fucking rock star.

Now, when I come across pictures of myself during that time, I was a total dork. But, at the time I thought I was so cool. Yeah, sure. The picture of me in a mullet hairdo and an obnoxious Cosby Show sweater tell me otherwise.

I soon graduated from the smurfs to Rick Springfield, then my biggest loves of all… John Taylor and Duran Duran. Those were the days.

I didn’t understand the level of annoyance that playing those cassette tapes over and over must have caused my mom.

I have an 8 year-old and my eardrums are being tortured by Kidz Bop. I’m now understanding what my mom had to go through with my musical phases.

We listen to the Kidz Bop satellite station most of the time when we’re in the car. I can’t even put into words how much Kidz Bop annoys the fuck out of me. It’s almost as bad as my daughter’s Calliou phase, although I don’t think it’s possible that anything can annoy me more than that little asshole.

But, Kidz Bop is up there.

My daughter has even schooled me on the names of the Kidz Bop kids. Yes. I now know which one is Brianna. Okay, I don’t really but when we see her in a video, my daughter excitedly says that’s her and I just say mmmhmmm.

I never knew so much about parenthood was about pretending like you know what the hell your kid is taking about, shaking your head in agreement, and saying mmmhmm.

My most embarrassing moment this past week was when my daughter and I were driving home from the library. Whenever I hear Ed Sheeran’s song, Photograph, I tear up every damn time. No, I’m not ashamed of it! That’s a really great song and nobody can tell me any different. Nobody, I say!!

The radio was playing a Kidz Bop version of the song. I thought to myself, “Oh, please. This is going to be awful.”

Two minutes later, tears were rolling down my face.

Damn you, Kidz Bop!

Comments { 1 }

WTFuckbook?

I’ve written before about how much I can’t stand Facebook but I just can’t quit it. I can’t quit you, Facebook! You bastard!

I certainly had plenty of moments of over sharing on it and there’s really no point in this sentence since I forgot where I was going with it so let’s move on, shall we?

A few posts ago, I mentioned a married family member who needs to eat a sandwich and quit fucking other people. She’s been jumping on other dick faster than I go through a box of tissues during allergy season which is all year for me so boo for that. Not her dick jumping. My allergies. Actually, boo to both.

I’m on Benadryl so I’m not making any sense.

Anyway,

This family member went back to her husband and now they’re constantly posting gag-worthy FB status updates. She’s been cheating on him throughout the marriage and even admitted she has no reason at all to stay married because she knows she’ll continue to cheat.

They are always tagging each other if they put up a puke song about their love or anything from pics of them together to rants about how the husband isn’t putting up with anyone messing with his woman or driving a wedge between him and her.

Bless his little heart. If he only knew that the “wedge” he’s talking about is the men Mrs. Dickjumper jumps on.

These FB updates can be creepy as fuck but for some reason people are eating it up. One post that made me think WTFuckbook? was when he took a photo of how he spelled out “I Love You” on their bed that just a few weeks before was where he caught her in there with another man.

May I just add that “I Love You” was spelled out in bullets.

Um.

Hmmm.

I love You spelled out in bullets on the bed?

Is this a thing I didn’t know about? People loved that post and had comments like “how sweet” or “nothing says I love you like bullets”. Granted, they live in the South and are gun enthusiasts but…

He spelled I Love You IN BULLETS. This is like being in the middle of a creepy as fuck Lifetime movie. This isn’t normal in the world I live in. If I came home to that, I wouldn’t stop to take photos. I’d run out the damn door.

He also made a big heart on a wall with post-its.

The dude would be screwed if he fucked with my post-its. That’s definitely where I draw the line. I’m OCD about having post-it notes around the house in case I need to write something down. If my man used up my post-its, I would freak and make him put the post-its back together.

Then, I would post a picture of it on Facebook. #blessed

Comments { 4 }

#Blessed

Something has been on my mind for quite a while that I just have to get out in the open.

No, it’s not that Trump is a disgusting, vile pig who needs to be grabbed by the pussy because he’s a chicken shit and coward for not attending the White House Correspondent’s Dinner, although yes, that was something I’ve been thinking about. No offense to chicken shit or pussies.

What I want to get out in the open is that I can’t take one more person being “#blessed” on their Facebook status.

Don’t get me wrong. If you feel that way, great for you.

It’s the insane overuse of the word that annoys me. An example of the use, which I’m totally pulling out of my ass…

Facebook Status:

‘I bought a frozen lemonade at Panera and it was delicious. #lemonade #blessed’

2k likes

55 comments

Really?

It’s a fucking lemonade. Chill the fuck out.

And, seriously. You have that many likes?

I share a video of a cat eating watermelon in a funny hat while dressed up as Princess Leia with a functioning light saber, but it only gets 2 likes.

What is up with that?!

Ahem, anyway… I get the use of the word with the birth of a child or somebody recovering from surgery, etc. But, to use it all the fucking time? What happened to words like ‘thankful’ or ‘happy’?

Nope, it’s not good enough, apparently.

Facebook Status:

‘I’m so #blessed that there was a hidden tampon in my purse when I thought I was out.’

Okay, actually finding a tampon that I didn’t think I had when I’m bleeding to death at that time of the month is a blessing because I don’t want to put pants on, drive to the store, walk, get stuck behind the slowest fucking person in the whole goddamn universe, walk back to my car, and drive home. I don’t want to deal with people when I’m on my period.

Oops, my mistake.

The desire to not have to deal with people is something I want on a daily basis.

So, can you tell by my bitchiness that I’m currently on my period, would kill for a Snickers bar, and found a surprise and unopened box of tampons in a bathroom cabinet earlier?

#blessed

Comments { 7 }